


The Five Times Peter's Enhanced Metabolism Screws Him Over + the One Time He Gets Help

by whumphoarder



Series: Quieting the Void [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fainting, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Metabolism, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sick Peter Parker, Spider metabolism, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting, binge eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 15:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: Peter only knows how to be empty or overflowing. Nothing in between.(Or, in which Peter's enhanced metabolism causes him to essentially develop an eating disorder.)





	1. The Pasta Incident

**Author's Note:**

> (Warning: While this fic is not about eating disorders in the traditional sense, it does portray a lot of behaviors that are common among ED patients, including detailed descriptions of binging, food restriction, and vomiting. Please exercise caution if that’s something you find triggering/upsetting)
> 
> Major thanks to [Sally0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sally0/pseuds/Sally0) (tumblr: [sallyidss](https://sallyidss.tumblr.com/)) for your beta-reading and encouragement, and to [Aurealis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurealis/pseuds/Aurealis) (tumblr: [irondadgroupie](https://irondadgroupie.tumblr.com/)) for all your ideas! You're both awesome and this story is so much better because of you <3

A hand waving in front of his face snaps Peter out of his daze. “Hello? Earth to Spider-Man—anyone home?” Tony asks.

Peter blinks at his mentor across the table. Pepper sits in the chair beside him, hiding a smirk behind her hand. “Um, sorry, what did you say?” he mumbles.

“I asked if you wanted seconds,” Tony says. “Pepper’s been trying to talk to you about decathlon for the past two minutes but you’ve just been staring at that pasta bowl like you’re trying to bore a hole through it. If you want some more, just take it.”

The truth is Peter does want more; he always wants more. Since the spider bite, his already fast teenage metabolism had been kicked into overdrive.

In the early days, Peter simply ate more to compensate. Money hadn’t been so tight back when they were a two-income family—his aunt and uncle just cracked jokes about Peter going through the mother of all growth spurts and increased their weekly grocery haul by a third.

Then Ben died and May started picking up double shifts one or two nights a week. Peter couldn’t bear the thought of adding any more to her plate, so instead, he started putting less on his own.

The average-size portion of pasta he’s just consumed hasn’t even touched the sides of the emptiness inside, but he’s so used to nothing filling it that he gives his automatic reply of, “Oh, no thanks, I’m fine.”

Tony gives him a skeptical look before reaching for the pasta bowl and piling another helping on Peter’s plate. “I’ve sat through enough dinners with Cap to know that look of pathetic longing,” he says. “Now eat.”

So Peter does eat. As the three of them chat about school and decathlon and Ned’s new Lego set, Tony ends up serving him thirds and then even fourths, with salad and garlic bread besides, watching in amusement as Peter consumes everything put before him. Peter leaves the table relishing the feeling of actual fullness for the first time in months.

But later that night, Peter is regretting everything as his stomach churns in protest. He finally loses his battle and scrambles out of bed and into the bathroom, yanking the toilet lid up and burping sickly before heaving his partially digested dinner into the bowl. The vomit burns his throat and nose and seems like it will never end.

When it finally does, he lowers himself down to sit on the floor next to the toilet, one arm wrapped around his still spasming stomach. His nose is running and tears prick at his eyes. He feels stupid—he should have known better than to think he could suddenly just eat four times his usual serving with no ill effects.

His self-loathing is interrupted by a soft knocking on the door. “Peter?”

He’s a little surprised to hear Pepper’s voice. It’s all soft and concerned, almost like May’s. “Peter, can I open the door?”

He tries to say he’s fine, she can go, don’t worry, but all that comes out of his mouth is another gag followed by more of his dinner.

Pepper hesitates a second before carefully pushing the door open and poking her head in. If the sight of him sat on the floor with his head in the toilet fazes her, she doesn’t show it. “Hey Peter,” she says softly. She squats down to his eye level and places a gentle hand on his back. “FRIDAY said you were getting sick.”

Peter’s cheeks flush. He spits a string of bile into the toilet. “Sorry, ‘m’fine, really. Just... my stomach…” he waffles.

She frowns a bit and presses her other hand to his forehead. “FRIDAY, what’s the verdict?” she asks the AI.

“Peter’s current temperature is 98.7 degrees fahrenheit, which is perfectly within his normal range,” FRIDAY reports.

“I’m not sick,” Peter mumbles, letting his arms wrap around his middle. He’s thoroughly humiliated now. “I think I just, like, ate too much.”

Pepper gives a small hum of understanding. “I thought Tony might be pushing it with the fourth plate.” She stands back up and moves towards the sink so she can wet a washcloth. After wringing it out, she holds it out to Peter.

Without meeting her gaze, Peter takes the damp cloth and wipes his face. While he’s doing that, Pepper fills a glass with water for him. He manages to take a few sips. The cool liquid is heavenly on his burning throat.

“Feeling better?” Pepper asks.

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter croaks. His stomach still hurts but at least he doesn’t feel so sick now. “I’m really sorry—this is so embarrassing.”

She gives a half laugh. “Don’t worry, this is far from the first time I’ve seen someone vomit. There’s just usually more alcohol involved and less pasta.”

She offers Peter a hand and pulls him back to standing, grabbing the small trash can from beside the sink as they make their way back to the guest bedroom. “Would medicine help? We’ve got just about everything you can think of—Alka Seltzer, Pepto, Tylenol…”

“No, I’ll be okay,” Peter declines. “Thanks though.”

Pepper makes sure there’s a fresh bag in the trashcan and a glass of water on the nightstand before leaving Peter for the night.

As he tosses and turns on the overly soft mattress, he promises himself never to let this happen again.


	2. Home From School

Most days aren’t so bad. Peter’s learned to live with the constant feeling of emptiness inside of him. It’s not hunger so much as it’s just being perpetually unsatisfied. When he’s at school, he can usually keep the feeling at bay by staying busy, guzzling water, chewing gum, or as a last resort, bumming snacks off Ned.

He’s not starving—he eats at least as much as his classmates do. But he’s still a chasm.

Then there are days like this one. The emptiness gnaws at him, and Peter feels as though he’s floating through his lessons, physically present but mentally miles away. When anyone speaks to him, there’s a small lag time to process what’s been said. His head aches, his brain is foggy, and he’s freezing cold, despite the mild weather outside.

“Dude, you look like crap,” Ned comments as Peter fumbles with the combination on his gym locker before finally getting it open.

“Thanks, man,” Peter deadpans. He takes out his bag and steels himself for the rush of cool air before whipping his hoodie off. Goosebumps instantly appear on his exposed flesh and a shiver runs through him as he hurries to change into his gym t-shirt.

Ned frowns at him. “Are you sick or something?”

“Nah, just tired,” Peter gives his automatic reply. It’s not a lie—he’s always tired on days like this. He even nodded off during physics class.

Ned’s eyes widen. “Did something happen during”—he lowers his voice to a stage whisper— “you know, _the internship_?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “ _No_ , Ned,” he groans. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Ned looks unconvinced, but lets it go and they make their way to the field house. They’re playing volleyball today. It’s not Peter’s favorite sport, but at least it doesn’t require as much running as some of the other options. He doesn’t think he could handle another circuit training unit.

It’s hard to keep focused when all Peter can think about is how freezing it is in the gym—seriously, it’s October, can’t they turn off the fans?—and the fact that there’s still two periods left before lunch, not counting this one.

A ball comes whizzing at his face and it’s only due to his spider sense that he manages to avoid a bloody nose, throwing up a hand to block it at the last possible second.

“Look alive, Parker!” Coach Wilson hollers as the volleyball bounces off Peter’s arm and onto the floor, earning him groans from several of his teammates.

Flash crosses in front of Peter as they all rotate positions. “What’s the matter, Penis?” he jeers, just loud enough for the surrounding students to hear but not so loud that Wilson catches it. “Can’t keep it up? You know they make pills for that.”

Peter just rolls his eyes and bends down to pick up the ball. But when he pushes himself back to standing, a dark cloud rolls across his vision and he has to grab hold of the net to keep upright.

“Gonna channel your inner Victorian lady now?” Flash taunts.

Ned’s on the other team, but also in the front row. He steps forward towards his wobbly friend. “You good?” Ned whispers through the net.

“I’m fine,” Peter mutters back as his vision clears and the wave of dizziness subsides.

They make it through the rest of gym without incident, and then Ned heads off to econ while Peter floats along to Spanish. The dizziness may be gone, but the mental fog and the chill in Peter’s bones are back. It’s so inescapable that it makes him want to cry—which is pathetic and stupid, he tells himself, but the feeling remains all the same.

When the bell rings, Peter takes his time gathering his stuff together. He’s just shuffling out of the classroom when Ned meets him.

“You still look like crap,” Ned remarks with a frown. “I have a free period before lunch—I could walk you home if you want.”

Peter’s first instinct is to protest; he hardly ever skips school. But the idea of being home on the sofa wrapped in blankets and eating something warm fills him with such longing that he finds himself nodding in agreement.

Ned seems caught off guard by the compliance. He leads Peter to his locker to gather his stuff and they slip outside through one of the side doors.

“Alright so what’s the deal?” Ned asks in a low voice once they’ve put some distance between them and the school. “Did you get hurt on patrol or something?”

Peter sighs. “Honestly? I’m just really tired.” He stares down at his shuffling feet. “And like, hungry,” he adds in a mumble.

“Hungry?” Ned quirks an eyebrow at his friend.

Peter looks down at his feet. “Yeah, just, y’know…” He shrugs.

Ned gives a half-laugh of relief. “Well, hungry we can fix!”

He steers his friend into Delmar’s and orders two sandwiches—a turkey bacon club for himself and a number five with pickles for Peter. Peter tries to stop him, muttering something about how he doesn’t have cash on him, but Ned just pulls out his debit card and tells Peter to shut up because he’s hungry too.

After Ned drops him off at home, Peter flips on the TV and unwraps the sandwich, fully intending to savor each morsel. But after two bites, some animalistic instinct inside takes over. He practically inhales the rest of it, only vaguely watching the bickering Kardashians in the background, but the food doesn’t even come close to filling the screaming chasm within.

Before Peter can register what he’s doing, he’s standing in the kitchen, digging through the fridge. He pulls out a plastic container of leftover spaghetti and dumps half of it into a bowl with a handful of shredded cheese. He throws another handful back directly into his mouth and pops the bowl into the microwave.

While that’s heating, he tears the top off a cup of yogurt and swallows it in about four slurps between rifling through the cabinets to find a bag of trail mix. He shoves a few handfuls of that into his mouth, and then follows it with handfuls of dry cereal and the broken remains of a bag of tortilla chips.

As he chokes down the stale chips, the microwave beeps so he spins around to retrieve the pasta. The bowl is so hot that it burns his hand as he sets it on the counter. He attacks it with a fork. It’s not even good—the cheese over-cooked and rubbery—but Peter is not tasting anything at this point.

He and Ned have an annual tradition of camping out on the couch in Ned’s family room and watching Shark Week together. Peter is feeling like one of those sharks right now—like he’s gotten a whiff of blood and now is in a frenzy.

Peter tears open the freezer and grabs a bag of frozen corn, pours some out into his hand, and tosses it back into his mouth. The kernels are too cold and they make his teeth ache as he chews, but he swallows them down quickly and then repeats the process with a bag of frozen blueberries.

In the cabinet above the stove, he finds a pack of pop tarts—unfrosted strawberry, which he doesn’t even like but May had bought because she had a coupon—and rips them open. Sticking one pastry in the toaster, he devours the other cold.

He ends up finishing off his “lunch” with four or five straight spoons of peanut butter. It sticks to his throat all the way down and he can barely breathe, but finally the void inside stops screaming at him. It’s replaced by numbness.

Peter’s pocket starts buzzing and he tugs out his phone. Aunt May, the screen displays. He answers in a daze. “Yeah?”

May’s voice is a mixture of irritated and worried. “Peter? I got a call from the school saying you skipped two classes. You had better not be out on patrol.”

“I’m not, I’m at home,” he says quickly. The food churns inside of him and he presses his fingers to his mouth to stifle a burp. It tastes like dill pickles and peanut butter and artificial strawberries. He grimaces and swallows hard.

“Why are you at home when it’s barely even noon?” she asks.

“Wasn’t feeling good,” he mumbles. “Ned walked me home.”

May sighs exasperatedly. “Peter, you know you can’t just leave campus without telling anyone. You have to go to the nurse and wait to get signed out.”

“I know,” he starts, “I just—”

The toaster chooses that moment to pop and it startles Peter right out of his daze. His eyes dart around the kitchen, taking in the mess he’s made. Crumbs and cheese shreds litter the counter, peanut butter is smeared on the dish towel from where he wiped his hand, and there are cereal flakes and kernels of corn all over the floor. The pop tart sits halfway out of the toaster, steam rising from it.

The sudden realization of what he’s just done comes crashing over Peter and his stomach lurches. He drops the phone on the counter with a clatter and sticks his head over the sink just before a torrent of undigested food resurfaces. It splashes onto the unwashed dishes and looks so disgusting there that he immediately gags again.

He feels like he’s choking, barely able to get a breath in.

When the heaving tapers off, he hears May’s voice faintly through the phone. “...ter? Peter, are you alright?”

Hand shaking, he picks up the device and holds it back to his ear. “Sorry,” he rasps.

The irritation is gone from her tone now and replaced with concern. “Did you just throw up?”

She’s obviously heard him, so Peter sees no use denying it. “Um… yeah,” he croaks out.

She sighs. “Okay. I’ll be home in half an hour.”

Panic and guilt rush over him as he thinks of the state of the kitchen and the idea of May leaving work early all because he ate himself sick in some kind of delirious frenzy.

“You really don’t have to. I’m okay, I promise,” he insists. “I-I don’t know what it was—maybe the milk was bad this morning? But I’m feeling a lot better now. Honest.”

He desperately hopes May didn’t have any milk in her morning coffee to call him out, but luck is apparently on his side as she only hums in response. “Alright, but call me if you start feeling worse.”

“I will,” he agrees.

By the time May gets home a few hours later, it’s to a sparkling clean and recently restocked kitchen. But Peter’s never felt more dirty.


	3. Running On Empty

Patrolling is hard on the bad days. The actual action parts are alright—the adrenaline keeps him focused. But it’s the in-between time that sucks, when he swings through the streets above the countless outdoor vendors, catching whiffs of hotdogs and street tacos and churros. That’s when the emptiness gnaws at him.

Ever since those first two incidents, it’s like the floodgates have been opened. Peter’s body now knows it can be full again, and it’s desperate to recreate that feeling. Thoughts of food consume his day. He daydreams about lunch while eating breakfast, and about dinner while eating lunch. He picks up jobs babysitting his seven-year-old neighbor a couple times a month so he can spend the little money he earns on snacks, and any cash May gives him goes directly to his food fund. But he still can’t ever seem to get enough to feel satisfied.

He’s not starving—he eats plenty. He’s just empty.

“Hey Karen, can you turn up the heater?” Peter asks through chattering teeth. He’s just gotten suited up in a nearby alley and is now sitting on the edge of a building with his feet dangling over the side, taking in the view of his city.

“The heater is already turned to the maximum setting,” Karen’s voice replies.

Peter sighs and rubs his arms briskly in an effort to warm up. It’s only November—he doesn’t know how he’s going to last in December and January if he’s already this cold now. That’s something he should probably bring up with Mr. Stark next time they work on suit upgrades.

He cups his freezing fingers to his mouth and blows hot air into them. “Okay, Karen, what do you have for me today?” Peter asks.

“There appears to be a mugging in progress three blocks east from here,” she supplies. “Would you like me to plot a course?”

Peter’s eyes light up. “Hell yes!” he agrees easily.

Karen lights up a path for him and Peter swings his way to a back alley between two sketchy looking apartment buildings. He spies a guy in a black hoodie cornering a middle-aged woman up against one of the brick walls, a knife pointed at her throat. The lady is pulling a wad of cash from her wallet with trembling hands.

“Hey Mr. Mugger!” Peter shouts as he releases his web on the upswing, allowing him to land on the wall of one of the buildings, his hands and feet attaching to the brick. “Didn’t your parents ever take you to Sunday School? Stealing is one of the top ten no-nos.”

The mugger gapes up at him. “How the fuck are you doing that?”

The woman seizes this opportunity to knee her attacker in the balls and take off running. The man yelps and doubles over, but not before hurling the knife in Peter’s direction with surprising accuracy.

With no time to dodge, Peter’s instincts kick in and he grabs it out of mid-air. It’s probably not his best idea, as he ends up catching it by the blade and it slices into his gloved hand, but given that the alternative was catching it with his torso, that seems an acceptable compromise.

Peter detaches his remaining limbs from the wall and drops to the ground with a flip. He fires a web at the man’s legs and whips it back, causing the mugger to fall backwards onto the ground. The man’s head hits the asphalt with a smack that makes Peter wince.

“Yikes, might wanna wear a helmet next time!” Peter says as he tosses the knife up into the air and webs it to the wall about halfway up the building. That way the cops will find it, but it’s high enough up that no one else should be able to reach it. “Or just, y’know, not mug people,” he throws in.

The man is curled on the ground, groaning in pain and clutching his head with one hand, groin with the other. It’s just pathetic enough to make Peter feel a little bad as he drags the man over to sit up against the wall and webs him in place. But then he looks down at his hand, slowly dripping blood, and his sympathy dissolves.

“Alright, good luck with the cops,” he tells the mugger. “I’ll tell ‘em to bring some ice packs. Or frozen peas—that’s what my aunt usually uses.”

“Fuck you...” the man groans.

“That was rude,” Peter tuts at him. “Now I’m not gonna mention the peas.”

He turns around to ask Karen to make the call, but stops when he sees a fifty dollar bill on the ground. The woman must have dropped it in the scuffle. He bends down to pick it up, but when he stands again, his head rushes and he has to brace himself against the building.

“Whoa…” he mutters. The familiar dark cloud rolls across his vision and he tries to blink it away. Now that the adrenaline is subsiding, he realizes that he’s feeling kind of lousy. A headache is pounding in his temples and he’s shaky and vaguely nauseous.

“Peter, you are showing signs of hypoglycemia,” Karen reports.

He frowns in confusion. “Does that have to do with the cut?” he murmurs, glancing down at his hand. It honestly doesn’t look that bad. He’ll have to repair the sliced glove, but the wound itself isn’t very deep. It will probably be healed by the end of his patrol.

“No, my sensors indicate that the cut to your hand is superficial,” Karen says. “But your blood sugar level is abnormally low.”

Peter moves shakily away from the man on the ground so he won’t overhear. “My blood sugar?” he repeats questioningly. “But I ate twice today already.”

“Given your activity level and your enhanced metabolism, you need to eat more than an average person,” she says patiently.

Peter sighs in frustration. He knows that—of course he knows that—but what is he supposed to do about it? He’s got no money and he’s blocks from his apartment with several hours left in his patrol.

His gaze lowers and catches on the fifty dollar bill he’s still clutching in his left hand. He had fully intended to chase after the victim and return it, but maybe…

“Karen, do you know where the lady went?” he asks cautiously.

“She took off immediately after the mugger went down. That was nearly four minutes ago.”

“So…” Peter hesitates, already feeling guilty for even thinking of it. “Does that mean I’m allowed to keep the money?”

“I can’t make ethical decisions for you, Peter,” Karen replies. “But I can tell you that given the victim’s rate of speed and your current condition, it is very unlikely you would be able to locate her at this time.”

If Peter hadn’t swooped in to save her, she would be out all of her cash, not just fifty bucks. So this is basically like his cut, right?

(He doesn’t really believe what he’s telling himself, but he’s too lightheaded to come up with a better argument).

Peter can hear police sirens in the distance now as he starts wobbling his way out of the alley. There’s a convenience store right across the street, and it might as well be the promised land as a wave of relief washes over him.

To the owner’s credit, she doesn’t even bat an eye when Peter stumbles in, fully clad in his Spider-Man suit, to snag a bottle of coke from the cooler and plop a bag of pretzels on the counter. She just holds the fifty dollar bill up to the light and squints at it to check if it’s real before handing him back his $46.24 in change.

The moment he’s out of the store with his purchases, Peter ducks behind a dumpster in yet another alley and pulls up his mask. The coke and pretzels do their job and within a few minutes, the dizziness and nausea are gone, replaced by renewed hunger. The void inside is awake and crying out for nourishment.

Maybe the universe gave him the money for a reason, he thinks. Maybe this is what he needs to get through his patrols.

Peter walks back into the store, much steadier this time, and starts pacing the aisles with renewed vigor. He starts out trying to be reasonable. Protein is important, he knows, so he grabs a box of Clif Bars, some Slim Jims, and a jar of peanut butter. For carbs he throws in some more pretzels and a box of graham crackers and then also a package of Oreos because, hey, Oreos.

He keeps a running tally of the cost on the calculator app on his phone to make sure he stays within his budget. Despite the inflated convenience store prices, he still has a ways to go before he reaches $46.24, so he adds some fruit snacks, a box of Cheez-Its and an array of various other items, finishing it off with six 99-cent packs of peanut M&Ms from the register counter.

His total, with tax, comes out to $46.11. The shop owner rings him up with a bored expression and Peter leaves with three flimsy plastic bags loaded down with food.

Holding the bags together in one hand, he fires webs with the other, swinging his way to the first alley where he’s stashed his backpack. He throws his hoodie and jeans on over the suit, removing only the mask, and stuffs his purchases into the now bulging backpack. It’s been an awfully short patrol, but there’s no way he’ll be able to focus now—not with the void as loud as it is.

When Peter gets home, he runs straight to his bedroom and shuts the door before dumping the backpack’s contents out onto the floor. He rips open a Slim Jim and takes a chomp out of it. Then he tears open the Cheez-Its box and downs a few handfuls. He’s just throwing back one of the packs of M&Ms when a knock on the door makes him freeze mid-chew.

“Peter?” May calls. “Can I come in?”

“No!” he yelps in panic, shoving his stock of food under the bed. He hurriedly gulps down the chocolate already in his mouth. “Uh, I mean I’m changing! Just a second.” He pulls down his comforter so it hangs down off the edge of the mattress, blocking the view of the snacks. After stuffing the Slim Jim and M&M wrappers in his hoodie pocket, he wipes his cheesy fingers on his pants and hops to his feet. “Okay, I’m good,” he calls back.

May opens the door with an amused expression on her face. “Just changing, huh? Is that why you’re wearing the same thing as before?”

Peter’s face goes red, but it’s somehow less embarrassing to let her think _that_ than know the truth. He crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “What did you need?”

She holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, touchy subject! I was just going to ask if you wanted to go out for dinner tonight since you’re home so much earlier than usual. I’m thinking sushi.”

Peter relaxes a bit. “Oh, sure. Sushi’s good,” he replies easily. “Thanks May.”

She huffs out a quick laugh. “You’re welcome. Now I’ll leave you to”—she gestures vaguely—“whatever it is you were doing.” Shaking her head slowly, she closes the door behind her.

May’s visit seems to have quelled the frenzied feeling inside somewhat. He’s calmer now as he pulls his stockpile back out and sorts it neatly into a couple shoeboxes, which he then slides back under the mattress.

For just a moment, the emptiness is appeased.


	4. Midnight Snack

The first time Peter visited the Avengers compound for a training weekend with the team, he was blown away by the abundance of it all. Not the technology or the design or the building itself—all that had been expected. But the sheer quantity of food made available to the team was staggering. A tower of pizza boxes, a mountain of garlic bread, four different vats of various salads, and that’s not even to mention appetizers and dessert.

When he commented on this, Tony just laughed him off, saying something about superhero appetites eating him out of house and home. Peter was too shy back then to take more than average sized portions, and the excitement of being around the team kept his thoughts occupied to the point where food wasn’t high on his priority list. He was sitting next to Captain America for goodness sake—pizza was the last thing on his mind.

It’s not that way anymore. Sure, the compound is still exciting, but it’s no longer enough to curb the gnawing emptiness inside.

This weekend, the team is working on hand-to-hand combat training and various attack simulation drills. By the time they turn in late Saturday night, Peter’s both mentally and physically exhausted. Still, he can’t sleep. His hunger is a chasm so insatiable that it’s reached Sarlacc proportions.

Given all the calories he burned during training, he probably could have easily doubled the modest portion that he had for dinner, but ever since the humiliating pasta puking incident, he’s been making an extra effort to control himself here.

As Peter rolls over in bed for what feels like the hundredth time, his stomach growls loudly.

“God,” he mutters under his breath. “I would kill for a sandwich right now.”

“Boss keeps the numbers of several 24-hour food delivery services on file,” FRIDAY says into the darkness, startling him. “Would you like me to place an order for you?”

“Whoa!” Peter gasps at the AI. “Are you always just listening in?”

“My systems are always activated unless I am otherwise instructed. Would you prefer me to temporarily turn off the microphone in your room?” she offers.

“Nah, it’s fine I guess,” Peter says. “I just wasn’t expecting it.” He frowns as a thought occurs to him. “Wait, does that mean you can see me too?” He gasps and then whispers, “ _Do you watch me in the shower_?”

“My privacy protocols restrict the use of cameras in bedrooms and bathrooms unless explicitly overridden, which can only occur in the event of an emergency,” she explains.

Peter breathes out in relief. “Ah okay, that’s good. As long as you don’t watch me pooping.”

“I assure you, I do not watch you poop, Mr. Parker,” she says flatly.

He frowns again. “So wait a sec, that one night when I was throwing up… Ms. Potts said you knew I was sick. How did you know that?”

“If I detect sounds of distress through my auditory sensors, I am authorized to briefly turn on cameras in order to assess the situation,” she goes on. “If I deem it necessary, I will then contact another member of the team.”

“Ah okay, makes sense,” he agrees. FRIDAY is honestly one of the most fascinating parts of the compound to him. Peter’s stomach growls again and he groans. “Hey, do you think Mr. Stark would be mad if I got a snack from the kitchen?” he asks.

“You are permitted full access to the kitchens at any time of day.”

“I know, but would he be _mad_?” Peter presses. “Like, if he were to wake up and see me eating his food.”

“Boss is used to living with a rather eccentric collection of individuals,” she says mildly. “It would certainly not be the first time.”

Peter hesitates. “Would you have to tell him about it?”

“There is nothing in my protocol requiring me to inform him of teammates’ snacking habits, unless my safety protocols are activated in the event of an emergency, such as a severe allergic reaction, injury, fire, choking incident—”

“I think I get the picture,” Peter cuts her off, throwing the covers off of his legs. “So just don’t burn the house down or break out in hives and I’m good to go, right?”

“That’s correct,” she confirms.

“Cool, cool…” Peter hops out of bed and makes his way out of the room. He still feels a little weird about this, but FRIDAY did basically give him permission and surely a sandwich won’t be missed.

He creeps down the hallway all the way to the kitchen and quietly opens the refrigerator. There’s still a substantial amount of leftovers from dinner available, so he puts a small wad of Italian beef on a roll with a piece of provolone and sticks it in the microwave. He makes sure to pull it out two seconds before the beep—he’s in stealth mode after all.

The sandwich goes down quickly, but he still feels miles from full and there’s so much still left in the fridge. One more can’t hurt, right?

He repeats his earlier process, this time a little quicker and with a little less regard for stealth. He scarfs that one down in about four bites and then follows it with two more pieces of straight cheese while he’s pulling out the container of leftover salad. Dumping some into a bowl, he snags a fork from the drawer and starts shoveling it down, barely chewing.

Somewhere in the back of Peter’s mind is the vague sense that he can’t be doing this here—he’s going to get caught. But as long as Peter keeps moving—grabbing, chewing, swallowing—he doesn’t have time to think about what he’s doing. Numbness is filling the void and it’s so sweet.

He doesn’t take more than a few bites of anything in particular—never enough that it will be noticed. A sliver of cake, three spoons of macaroni salad, a broken bit of cookie, a scoop of ice cream. He’s working himself into a frenzy, yanking containers out one after another and shoving their contents in with no regard for whether or not he even likes the food.

It’s a miracle no one hears him. Peter continues his rampage until his jaw aches from chewing and his stomach feels so full he can barely breathe.

Peter sinks to the floor and sits slumped against the kitchen island, eyes staring straight ahead. His head is buzzing but his mind is numb.

The longer he sits, the more uncomfortable his body feels. His breaths are coming out shallow and quick, like there’s not enough room in his chest for his lungs to expand. His throat feels strangely thick. Tears begin to prick at his eyes.

He doesn’t know why this keeps happening—why he can go days on end without incident and then just ransack the place in a matter of ten minutes. The tears are sliding down his cheeks now and he’s drawing in shuddery breaths. He feels disgusting and greedy and so, so stupid.

“FRIDAY?” Peter whispers, voice broken. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Peter, you appear to be in distress,” FRIDAY replies, her volume lower than usual. “Do you require assistance?”

“N-No,” he whimpers back. “D-Don’t tell anyone.”

She pauses a second before answering, “As you wish.”

Trembling, he pulls himself up to his feet again and starts to clean up the mess he’s made, putting lids back on containers and resealing plastic bags. It’s slow going as every movement causes his stomach contents to shift dangerously, and he nearly pukes twice, but he manages to get the kitchen back to a passable impression of how he found it.

Once back in his room, he collapses onto the bed, stomach aching, and asks FRIDAY to mute the microphone. Then he cries until the numbness takes over and he eventually falls asleep.

He’s pretty sure the void is laughing at him now.


	5. Emma

“Spider-Man, how’s that perimeter coming along?” Steve’s voice issues over the comms.

“Pretty good!” Peter replies as he escorts a terrified mother and her sobbing toddler away from the blasts taking place behind them. “Got almost everyone evacuated.”

“Good man,” Steve praises. “Finish clearing that block and then see if the police need any help with crowd control.”

“Got it.” As Peter swings back towards the city center, he catches a glimpse of Falcon soaring past overhead. Black Widow and Hulk are tag teaming on one of the three remaining aliens, while Iron Man blasts his repulsor at another. It lets out a garbled roar of fury. Hawkeye fires a series of arrows, striking the creature squarely in the chest and finally bringing it down.

Peter hurries to evacuate the twenty or so civilians who have been taking shelter in a nearby Starbucks and ushers them back out behind the barricades. Mere seconds after the final employee flees the building, another alien shoots a laser at the structure, burning a hole right through the windows.

“Alright that’s the last civilian clear!” Tony calls over the comms. “Now get the hell out of here, kid!”

Peter’s spider senses ping at him and he ducks just as another blast goes over his head. “Working on it, Mr. Stark!” he yelps back.

Peter isn’t normally called in for high stakes missions like this one, but when the aliens touched down literally six blocks from his aunt’s apartment, the team knew trying to stop him would be fruitless. So Tony had just hooked the kid up with a comms system and relegated him to evacuation duty.

Peter honestly isn’t even upset at the lack of action—these dudes aren’t fucking around.

Also, if he’s being perfectly honest, Peter’s not feeling that great. It has been another one of those cold, empty, floaty days—so much so that by the end of the school day, he had actually decided to skip his afternoon patrol in favor of a nap. But that all went out the window when he got the alert about the attack while on the subway home. The adrenaline is buzzing through him now, doing its job to keep Peter racing along, but there’s still an underlying exhaustion in his bones that he can’t shake.

He swings between buildings as he makes his way back, narrowly avoiding another blast. That’s when Peter sees her—a little girl, probably no more than six or seven years old—hiding curled up behind a dumpster in an alley beneath him less than fifty yards from where the fight is raging in the streets.

“Whoa!” Peter halts himself by sticking onto the side of the next building. “Hey! There’s a kid in danger!” he calls over the comms.

“Yeah, _you_!” Tony retorts. “Why are you still here?!”

Ignoring his mentor, Peter swings to the ground and races back towards the dumpster, dodging blasts as he goes. He skids into the alley and hurries over to the girl. It’s amazing he had even seen her. She’s pressed as far as possible into the corner behind the dumpster, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees as she whimpers in fear.

Peter immediately kneels down to her level. “Hey, hey it’s okay, sweetie,” he says soothingly. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

She just stares at him eyes wide and lips quivering.

“I’m Spider-Man,” Peter says. “I’m one of the good guys, I promise. Can you tell me your name?”

She hesitates a second before whimpering, “Emma.”

“Okay Emma, I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”

She nods frantically and then all but throws herself at him.

Peter can feel her little body trembling as she clings to his chest. He picks her up in his arms and gets to his feet. “Ready to go for a ride?” he asks.

She nods again and wraps her legs around him tightly.

Peter fires a web up at the building overhead and starts swinging back towards the barricades. They zip along, dodging blast after blast. There are some close calls, but within a few minutes, Peter manages to swing them both out of range of the battle.

That’s why there’s no excuse for what happens next.

Peter is mid-swing when his head suddenly rushes and the black cloud rolls back across his vision. Disoriented and dizzy, he shoots blindly ahead of him, but the web misses, and in a flash, he and Emma are plummeting towards the ground.

The little girl gives a terrified cry as Peter fires his web-shooter again desperately. It catches right at the last possible second. It’s enough to stop them from hitting the ground, but the sudden jolt of the web rips Peter’s shoulder right out of its socket.

However, that pain pales in comparison to the pure horror he feels when Emma slips from his grip.

They’re only ten or fifteen feet off the ground at this point, so the fall isn’t enough to be lethal, but it’s still fucking terrifying to watch. Emma lets out a little cry of surprise and Peter tries to fire another web at her. There’s just no time.

When she hits the pavement, there’s a horrible ‘crack’.

Peter instantly releases himself and falls down to the ground beside her, stumbling a bit on the landing as a jolt of pain goes through his dislocated shoulder. He ignores it and drops to his knees at her side.

Emma bursts into tears. “I wa-want my mommy!”

Peter’s head swims. He hovers his fingers over her leg, which is bent at a sickening angle, not quite letting himself touch it. “I… I’m gonna get you help,” he stammers.

Still crying, she stretches out her fingers to clasp his.

Over the comms, he can hear the battle winding down. Steve is saying something about neutralizing the final threats and Clint is cracking a joke about whatever hit Tony just took. It must not be that serious because Tony just tells him to stuff it, birdbrain. Meanwhile, Peter just sits there, holding the child’s hand as she sobs, willing himself to wake up and discover that this was all just a bad dream.

Peter steels himself to press the microphone on his earpiece. His voice comes out small and quavering over the rest of the team’s light-hearted banter:

“Guys, I… I messed up.”

**X**

Natasha is the one to answer his call. She pauses to assess the situation for a few seconds before crouching down in front of the crying child.

“Hi Emma, my name is Nat,” she introduces herself. “I’m going to fix your leg a bit so we can move you out of here, okay?”

Still whimpering, Emma nods back.

Natasha’s voice is calm and light, and her words are simple without being babyish as she explains to the little girl how she’s splinting the leg. Peter can’t really do anything but continue to squeeze the kid’s hand in gentle reassurance. Then Nat carefully lifts Emma in her arms and the three of them make their way back out behind the police barricades and to the crowd of spectators.

Peter watches as Emma is reunited with her very distraught mother and loaded into the back of an ambulance. Then Natasha ushers him onto the waiting Quinjet. Since most of the team is still dealing with the aftermath of the battle, it’s just the two of them.

“Okay, Peter,” she says evenly the moment the door is shut behind them and they have a little privacy. “Sit down. We need to fix that shoulder.”

Peter obeys, moving shakily to sit on the nearest seat. He supposes he should be grateful that he’s too numb to feel much as Natasha expertly pops the joint back into its socket and puts his arm in a sling. Once she’s done, Natasha sets a protein bar and a bottle of water in front of him.

“You need to eat,” she says quietly. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not hungry,” Peter mumbles back automatically. It’s a lie of course—the chasm has been screaming at him all day—but he knows one protein bar isn’t going to help, so why even bother? All it’s likely to do is chum the waters for the frenzy to begin.

“You are,” Nat disagrees. “You’re dizzy too. I saw it when you stood up. That’s why you fell, wasn’t it?”

Peter can’t look her in the eye. “I dropped her,” he whispers, still in a daze. “I missed a web and I just… dropped her.” He takes a shuddery breath. “She trusted me. She was so little and so scared... and I... I dropped her.”

“But she’s alright,” Natasha points out. “You got her out.”

“She’s not alright,” he argues miserably. “I broke her leg.”

Natasha shrugs. “Kids break bones. It builds character.” She picks the bar back up from the table and unwraps it. Then she breaks off a small piece and presses it into the palm of Peter’s trembling hand. “Eat, Peter,” she commands.

The emptiness swirls inside of him and he closes his eyes. “I can’t,” Peter whispers. “I’ll throw it up.”

Between the low blood sugar, the adrenaline crash, and the overwhelming guilt, Peter has plenty of reasons to feel sick right now. Yet he’s not referring to any of them. He’s talking about the emptiness—the void, the chasm—and how one bite right now will push him right over the edge.

“You won’t,” Natasha assures.

It’s so sincere that for a moment Peter believes her. Natasha sits with him, breaking off one tiny chunk of the bar at a time and having him take sips from the bottle.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Peter works his way through the protein bar and water. Natasha talks to him quietly, telling some kind of story about a past mission she and Clint were on in Belize. It’s obviously meant to distract him, but Peter isn’t really listening.

The void is awake now, and it’s angry.

When the rest of the team boards the ship twenty minutes later, Steve takes one look at Peter’s trembling form and tells him he can skip the debriefings. Tony offers to take him back to the compound with them, but for the first time ever, Peter declines.

Instead, Happy drops him off at his apartment and Peter immediately locks himself in his room. He yanks the shoeboxes out from under his mattress and starts cramming food into himself with reckless abandon.

After ten minutes, there’s nothing left—no shock, no guilt, no food. The chasm has swallowed it all.


	6. Quieting the Void

The next day is a Friday, but May lets him stay home from school anyway. Peter wakes up a little before ten to a text from Tony, informing him that Happy will be picking him up in half an hour and bringing him to the compound to work on some urgent suit upgrades.

(Peter gets the feeling that it’s actually just to make sure he’s not beating himself up too much.)

(Which he totally is.)

He doesn’t really want to go. His stomach is too messed up that morning to even attempt breakfast and he feels like shit. But May and Tony must have conspired together since she just shoos him out the door with a quick kiss on his forehead and instructions to text her if he’ll be staying the night.

Tony doesn’t talk about yesterday’s mission besides to mention that he followed up with the hospital and Emma is doing fine—she’s got a sweet purple cast that Spider-Man is welcome to stop by and sign later, and she should be getting released tomorrow.

After that, the two fall into the familiar swing of tinkering, sometimes bouncing ideas back and forth or making small talk, and other times just working side by side in companionable silence.

Hunger starts to gnaw at Peter after a while. His mentor is fully engrossed in the project and doesn’t seem to notice how they’re working right into the late afternoon.

On one hand, Peter knows all he has to do is tell Tony he’s hungry and they’ll stop for lunch. But something about the empty feeling inside is pissing Peter off today. Why can’t he just be fucking normal? Why does he have to be this freak who can’t even miss a meal without his body and mind going haywire? He’s so fucking sick of this. So he says nothing.

Another hour passes and Peter is feeling exhausted and floaty. His hands shake slightly as he connects the circuits. It’s not until he hops up from his stool to get a different pair of pliers that Peter realizes he’s fucked up. His head rushes and his world tilts dangerously before the blackness overtakes everything.

**X**

When Peter comes to again, he’s lying on the lab floor, his now throbbing head resting in his mentor’s lap.

“Peter?” Tony asks, tapping Peter’s cheek. “Hey, you back with me yet?”

Peter groans and starts to push himself up on his elbows, but Tony presses him back down gently.

“Just sit tight, kid,” Tony instructs. “Bruce is on his way.”

“‘M fine,” Peter slurs. “Just got a lil’ dizzy.” He can feel something trickling down the back of his aching skull and lifts his trembling hand to prod at it.

Tony immediately swats the hand away. “Yeah, nope, no touching either,” he says firmly. “You whacked it on the counter pretty good on the way down.”

Great. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and lets out another little moan. He’s so tired.

Bruce arrives about thirty seconds later, carrying a first aid kit and looking a little frazzled. “Hey. FRIDAY told me he fainted?”

Peter starts to say, “I didn’t fai—”

“Like one of those scared goats,” Tony cuts him off as Bruce crouches down to sit next to them on the floor. “Clocked his head too, hence the blood.”

Bruce pops the kit open to pull out some latex exam gloves. “Any other injuries I should know about? Did you get hurt yesterday, besides your shoulder?”

“No, nothing,” Peter mutters. He honestly hadn’t, and the shoulder was completely healed by that morning.

Bruce helps Peter to sit up, leaning him against Tony, and gingerly prods at the lump on the kid’s head. Then he shines a penlight in Peter’s eyes to check his pupils. “Doesn’t seem too bad,” he mutters to Tony. “No concussion, and he shouldn’t need stitches or anything. It’s already clotting.”

“Great,” Tony says. “Now, any idea why he took a swan dive in my lab?”

Bruce raises his eyebrows at his friend. “Knowing you?” he says with a scoff. “I’m guessing you worked him through lunch.”

Tony throws him a look of indignation. “We ate,” he retorts. “We had...” He pauses and glances at Peter. “Shit. FRIDAY, what did we eat today?”

“Nothing, boss,” she tattles.

Bruce snorts out a laugh. “See, this is why they gave me the seven PhDs.”

Tony rolls his eyes. He turns to Peter questioningly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hungry, kid?”

Peter’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He closes it again.

“Alright”—Bruce sighs and pushes himself up to standing—“should be an easy fix at least.” He holds out a hand to Peter. “Just have to get some food into him.”

A wave of anxiety crashes over Peter. How is he supposed to explain that this isn’t easy at all? That he couldn’t eat that morning because he’d fucking binged the night before? That he couldn’t ask Tony for food because the chasm had already grown too wide for a normal portion? That eating was dangerous now—that the void would swallow him whole?

He can’t explain it, so he just allows them to hoist him up and guide him out of the lab. Tony nudges him to sit on one of the couches in the living room.

Bruce leaves and returns a minute later carrying a tall glass of orange juice and some crackers with cheese. “Okay, _you_ eat this,” he instructs Peter, setting the plate and glass down on the coffee table. He pulls a protein bar out of his shirt pocket and tosses it to Tony. “And _you_ eat _that_.”

Tony flips him off, but unwraps the bar anyway.

Still looking at Tony, Bruce continues, “Just let him eat and rest. He should be feeling better in thirty minutes or so, but let me know if he isn’t and we can run some bloodwork.”

“Will do,” Tony agrees. “Thanks.”

Once Bruce leaves, Tony turns to look at the kid. “Alright, you heard the man.” He takes a bite of the bar. “Eat. Drink. Be merry.”

Under Tony’s watchful gaze, Peter starts sipping the juice and nibbling on his crackers.

When half the plate is gone, Tony asks, “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Peter lies.

(The chasm screams.)

“Good.” Tony glances down at his watch and then hands Peter the TV remote. “Okay, I’ve got a skype meeting starting in ten minutes with some shareholders in LA that Pepper will have my ass if I miss. You good chilling out here for a bit?”

“Yeah, of course,” Peter assures.

“Alright.” Tony stands up from the couch. “I’ll order dinner for six o’clock—I should be finished by then. Let FRIDAY know if you need anything.”

Tony heads out, and Peter flips on the TV. He settles on a Mythbusters marathon and tries to relax.

After a few minutes, the rest of the plate is gone and he doesn’t feel so sick and tired anymore—just empty. All he can think about is the void inside and how simple it would be to fill it.

Peter looks back over his shoulder and he can see into the kitchen. The temptation is growing. He glances at the clock. It’s a little before five. He tries to tell himself he only needs to last one hour until dinner.

But then the void reminds him that dinner isn’t going to fix this—it’ll just leave him as frustratingly empty and dissatisfied as always. He needs more. He needs… abundance.

All at once, Peter is up and moving to the kitchen. He pulls open the fridge and takes in the spread before him. He stuffs a handful of grapes into his mouth. Then a piece of cheese. Then a meatball. Then some black olives. A piece of cold pizza. Six baby carrots. There’s a box of bran muffins on the counter, and he devours one of those. Next is three spoons of Nutella, a handful of cashews, and a cup of dry granola.

After that, Peter’s mind stops registering what he’s doing—he’s not seeing, not tasting, not feeling. The numbness is everywhere.

Peter doesn’t know how long it goes on. He’s pretty sure he’s not inside of his body anymore.

Finally, through his daze, he registers a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Peter?”

Peter blinks. He suddenly realizes that he’s holding an open tub of butter in his hand.

“Peter?”

There are finger tracks in the butter and an oily, gross feeling on his tongue.

“Peter? Can you hear me?”

He turns slowly.

Tony is standing behind him, a hand on Peter’s shoulder, a shocked look on his face. His tone is more confused than accusatory. “Are… Are you eating _butter_?”

The numbness shatters. Peter manages to whip his head back around before retching violently onto the ground.

**X**

Peter is ushered into the bathroom where he continues to vomit into the toilet for another fifteen minutes, choked sobs coming out in between heaves. The void inside is laughing maniacally at him and it’s so, so loud.

Tony hovers nearby, his hand resting on Peter’s back, looking utterly baffled. Twice, he offers to get Bruce, but that only makes Peter cry harder with shame.

Eventually, Peter’s sobs die down and Tony steps out of the bathroom. He comes back a minute later with a new set of clothes for Peter.

“Think you can handle a shower?” Tony asks quietly.

Peter looks down at himself, for the first time realizing his clothes are soaked through with vomit. He nods and Tony steps out of the bathroom to give him some privacy.

Peter stays in the shower for nearly half an hour, just letting the scalding hot water fall over him, willing it to wash him away.

When he finally emerges from the bathroom, Tony is standing just outside, leaning against the wall and scrolling through something on his phone. He glances up at Peter and immediately puts the phone in his pocket.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “Now can you tell me what that was all about?”

Peter’s throat tightens and tears prick at his eyes. His voice comes out thick.

“I… I think I need help.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, something breaks inside of Peter. He falls forward, crashing into his bewildered mentor’s arms as he dissolves into fresh sobs.

**X**

It takes over an hour, but Peter ends up telling him everything. He tells about how the emptiness consumes him and makes him cold and floaty and miserable; about how he’d stolen fifty dollars to stockpile junk food under his mattress; about how his dizziness caused him to drop Emma; about how eating is simultaneously so enticing, and so repulsing, and so utterly all-consuming.

Tony sits next to Peter on the sofa as he listens, one arm wrapped around the kid’s shoulders. Only when Peter is finished does Tony speak.

“Okay, first off let me just say I’m really glad you told me,” he says seriously. “And you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Because this whole eating thing? It’s hard, Pete. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” Peter mumbles, looking down at his lap. “It’s just food.”

“Yeah, but it _is_ hard,” his mentor argues back. “I don’t exactly set the most shining example, and maybe I need to work on that, but honestly, I’m a little appalled at myself for not realizing this would be an issue before now. I mean, with that metabolism of yours, of course you’re gonna have problems.”

“It didn’t used to be so bad,” Peter says. “It’s just like, the void gets louder, you know?”

Tony nods thoughtfully. “What do you say to asking Bruce to run those tests after all? Figure out just how fast your metabolism actually is?”

Peter hesitates. “Would… Would we have to tell him everything?”

“No.” Tony shakes his head firmly. “Only what you’re comfortable with. You’re in charge here, kid—I’m just along for the ride.”

For once, Peter starts feeling some hope.

**X**

There’s a long road ahead for Peter.

He doesn’t tell Bruce everything, but enough that the scientist gets the picture. By the time they finish the tests, the results are that he has a metabolism just slightly slower than Steve’s—about three-and-a-half to four times that of a non-enhanced adult.

“That’s insane,” Peter says when he gets the report. “That can’t be right.”

Bruce shrugs. “It would definitely explain why normal portions don’t seem to make a dent—I would be feeling pretty ravenous too if I was only eating a quarter of what my body needed.”

The first thing that Tony does is to set up a food fund for Peter and hook him up with a debit card.

Peter naturally tries to protest, but Tony shoots him down.

“Yeah, no, this is an internship perk, buddy—I don’t like my employees taking unexpected swan dives in the lab.” He pauses and huffs out a laugh. “Plus, now you can pick up my Starbucks orders.”

Next, with Peter’s permission, Tony talks to Aunt May and ends up hiring a nutritionist who works with Peter to develop a meal plan that suits his superhuman metabolism. It has him eating smaller, more nutrient dense meals every one to two hours throughout the day.

In the beginning, it’s torture. Every time Peter eats, the void screams at him that these meals are not enough—that he’s empty and always will be. His binges actually increase during the first month, and it’s all Tony and May can do to keep him from abandoning the plan completely.

After the third straight night of Peter sobbing on the bathroom floor, the adults agree that a psychiatric consult is in order.

“Peter, it’s nothing to be ashamed about...” May tries to tell him.

Peter groans in frustration. “For the last time, I don’t have an eating disorder.”

“We’re not saying you do or you don’t,” Tony says simply. “We just think it might be helpful for you to talk to someone who knows more about this.”

Peter’s head is swirling. “But this has never been about what I look like,” he protests. “I’m not trying to be thin.”

“You don’t have to be,” Tony argues. “I’ve been doing some research, kid—anorexia and bulimia aren’t the only two options anymore.”

“Please, just let them evaluate you,” May pleads. “I hate seeing you like this. I just want you to feel better.”

**X**

Therapy helps somewhat. With practice, Peter learns strategies to help him recognize when the emptiness is hunger and when it’s not. It’s hard and it’s messy, but he keeps trying.

Several weeks into his treatment, FRIDAY’s voice breaks into the darkness of the compound’s kitchen. “Peter, you appear to be in distress. Do you require assistance?”

Peter blinks. He’s sitting on the floor in front of the open freezer, his painfully cold fingers jabbed into a container of ice cream. Melted chocolate is running down his chin. Numbness is everywhere. He fucking did it again.

Evidence of his binge is spread across the countertops, crumbs on the floor. He feels sick and ashamed and disgusting.

The void screams at him to hide.

He takes in a long, shuddery inhale. “Can… Can you get Mr. Stark?”

There’s a brief pause. “Boss is on his way,” FRIDAY reports. “He’s so proud of you, Peter.”

**X**

It’s a long road, but slowly, gradually, Peter’s body starts learning to trust him again. That food is coming. That the emptiness is not forever. That people in his life love him no matter what.

The chasm doesn’t swallow him whole anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to the end!
> 
> Peter's situation is much different from my own, but many of the thoughts and behaviors that he portrays in this story come directly from my own personal experience with eating disorders over the years. If there is anything to be taken from this story, I hope it's the knowledge that whether it's an ED or something else entirely, problems like these thrive in darkness and shame—they do not survive in the light. Sharing your struggles with people you trust and finding community is so incredibly vital in recovery because it brings that shame out into the open where it cannot live.
> 
> Okay, okay, all seriousness aside now, please do let me know your thoughts on the story!! I read and reply to every comment and they always make my day <3
> 
> If you ever wanna chat, hit me up on tumblr under the url [whumphoarder](https://whumphoarder.tumblr.com/)! Thanks for reading!


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